Some time ago I posted a series of four
very short pieces under the collective title Seasons.

Many readers have since written to ask if I would
do more of these little vignettes. What follows is such a piece,
part of a series called Places, based on my own memories of some
of my favorite cities and locations around the world.

Andrew, thank you again for so much help, for good
advice, for proofing and editing and, most of all, for making me look so
much better than I am.

I saw him standing in a corner by
himself, ill at ease, apparently not used to the smoke and noise of the
busy pub. He was wearing jeans but didn't look as if he was used to them.
Tight, new jeans and a black T-shirt which looked like it had seen more
wear. Both jeans and shirt clung to his body, revealing a very nice physique.

Our eyes met and then moved apart.
Dark eyes, so far as I could tell from twenty feet away, sandy hair, long,
rather unruly, boyish. He'd be about my age, I thought. Probably a bank
clerk or a solicitor, used to three-piece suits and trying to look relaxed
while seeing a bit of the soiled underbelly of London.

I wondered if he had a wife and kids
at home.

The pub was not exclusively gay,
but natural ground, a meeting place rather than a meat market.

I meandered out into the little garden
at the back, wondering if he'd be interested enough and bold enough to
follow. There were already a lot of people there, but it was less crowded
than the pub itself and the air was a lot fresher. A couple of chairs
had been moved away from the little iron tables and were standing together
against the back garden wall. I took one and put my pint on the other,
reserving it, in case the jeans guy followed.

He followed.

He looked around for me, found me
with his eyes and started in my direction. I watched his progress across
the little walled garden area, a sort of warm night overflow for the pub
itself. He curved and dodged, smiling a cute smile, as he worked his way
through a dozen or more people, men, women, couples of both the opposite
and same sex types. When he was fifteen feet away I realized that he was
shorter than me by several inches. When he was ten feet away I saw his
eyes were truly, amazingly, black, coal black. When he was five or six
feet away, I smiled, picked up my pint from the adjacent chair and nodded
towards him and then towards the empty chair.

He smiled and came to me, turned
and sat down in the chair, so close his thigh touched mine, not intentionally
provocative, although it was that, but simply because of the lack of space.

"Hello," he said. "I'm Patrick."
There was a lilt in his voice which could only be Irish.

"Hello, Patrick, I'm John."

The limited space and the closeness
of others made conversation difficult. It was impossible to ask what I
longed to ask without being overheard.

We talked about the cool evening.
It was the end of summer and the English autumn was coming on fast. The
pub had been stifling with heat and smoke, but here the air was fresher
and cool.

"Do you live near by," he eventually
asked.

"I'm American, Patrick." I smiled.
"Where I live isn't so close, but my hotel is."

"Ah," he smiled. "I'd guessed you
were Canadian." He clearly didn't know North American accents very well.

"I'm staying at one of those little
places off Gower Street, near the British Museum."

"Perhaps . . ." he started nervously,
then stopped.

"Yeah, sure," I smiled, not wanting
to frighten him off. "We could go there. What are you drinking?"

"Stout," he smiled.

"Guinness?"

"Yes, actually."

"Come on."

We stopped at an off-license on the
way. I bought four bottles, neatly nestled in double paper bags. It was
cooler in the street, the air fresher. We walked along Adeline by the YMCA
and circled Bedford Square.

I took my key out as we walked. The
place where I was staying was an old red brick terraced house, one of many
in the area which had been converted into small hotels. After ten o'clock
the front door was locked but each of the dozen or so guests was given
a front door key as well as a key to their individual room. I'd stayed
there several times over the last couple of years when in London doing
research at the National Library. In those days it was still housed in
the British Museum, under the vast dome where Charles Williams and Arthur
Waley had once read.

On many later visits I'd worked in
the vast new facilities further north on Euston Road, which were technically
superior but devoid of history.

Patrick and I entered the little
hotel quietly and silently climbed the stairs. I'd stayed there enough
to know which accommodations to request and had taken the central room
over the entry, overlooking the square. It was the only room with its own
private bath as well as a view, a little larger than the others and it
had a large inviting bed.

It was the hope of nights like this
that had made me indulge in the extra luxury.In my room, the door locked and
the bedside lamp giving a soft glow, I opened two bottles of Irish magic
and handed one to Patrick, letting my hand linger over his as he took it
from me.

I handed him a bathroom glass, too
small, but all I had, and watched as he poured the stout. He did it well,
letting the head form.

"You seem a little nervous," I said,
my voice low.

"Yes. I haven't done this often,
hardly at all."

"I thought that might be the case.
I bet you're more comfortable in a pinstripe suit than in those new jeans."

"Oh, I guess I look ridiculous."

"No, actually, you look quite nice.
You should just give the jeans a few washings before wearing them out on
a crawl."

"Actually, it's not a suit I'm used
to."

He blushed, but not knowing what
he'd meant, I just charged on. "Look, Patrick, we're grown men and we both
know why we're here. Maybe we could make better use of our time if you'd
just tell me what you want."

He first looked shocked at my directness,
but the shock changed quickly to relief.

"I suppose that would be best."

"Well, first of all, how long can
you stay. Are we talking about an hour at most, or could you spend the
night?"

He sat down suddenly in one of the
two small chairs. I knew I'd socked him but by that point he was in my
room and I didn't think I'd scare him off.

"I could stay the night, I suppose.
I'd not be missed until tomorrow afternoon." As he spoke he got up from
the chair, then sat again and rose a second time, his nervousness evident
in his movements.

"Good, that answers one question.
I guess that means you don't have a wife waiting up for you."

"Oh, no. I'm not married . . . not
. . ."

"Okay," I said, still not sure I
was understanding him. "I'll just ask straight out, what do you like?"
When he didn't immediately answer, I added, "what sorts of things do you
like to do?"

"I'd like . . . "

"Yes?"

"I'd love for you to hold me."

"Sure." I moved over to him and drew
him into a gentle embrace. I could feel him tremble. "What else?"

"I love to kiss . . ."

"Okay." I pressed my lips against
his forehead as if I were kissing a child.

"I want . . ." he started, paused,
then began again, "I need . . ."

"Yes?"

". . . to be possessed . . . to be
taken."

"So you want me to fuck you?" I said
it softly, almost a whisper, as my lips brushed softly over his left ear.

He pulled back a little and I could
tell by his wide eyes that my directness had again startled him. Finally,
after a long awkward moment of silence, he whispered, "yes."

"Let's get out of these clothes,"
I whispered as I backed up a few inches and took hold of his T-shirt just
above the waist of his jeans. It came loose with my first tug and he raised
his arms, letting me pull it up and off.

My eyes roamed over his torso approvingly.
As I'd suspected, he was muscular and toned. There was no fat on him. His
skin was warm, quite smooth, and had a golden hue, pale, but not as pale
as many sun deprived British guys.

He reached up to unbutton my own
shirt and I stood still, letting him do as he pleased. When he'd gotten
it off he too looked me over, just as I'd examined him, and then slowly
smiled.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

"Just what I was thinking."

I put my arms around him again and
drew him to me. Our chests met and we kissed.

He was just enough shorter than me
that he had to turn his head up to me and I had to bend mine down to him.
It was nice, his hard body pressed against mine, his lips, gentle, unsure,
tentative.

I let him set the pace, let him kiss
my closed mouth and then my cheeks. He was becoming aroused and his hardening
cock pressed against mine through the thickness of our clothes.

It was time to move on.

I opened my lips very slightly and
kissed him again on the mouth. My tongue ran over his closed lips, asking
for entry, and he quickly complied, opening to me, letting me feel his
own tongue pressing against mine.

"Um," he moaned as I ran my hands
along the rear of his jeans and then pressed down under the waistband to
feel his warm, smooth butt.

"Let's get out of these," I said,
breaking out of our embrace and reaching for his belt. He stood still as
I loosened it and freed the button at the top of his fly. One button, a
zipper, and a gentle shove, and I'd moved his jeans and briefs down far
enough for his cock to spring free. Then, kneeling in front of him, I pulled
then down as he tried desperately to kick off his shoes. With his hands
on my shoulders for balance, he managed to get the last of his clothes
off and then he was naked and erect before me. His cock, not large, but
beautiful, pulsed within inches of my face.

I leaned forward and kissed its drooling
head.

He moaned. I took it in half way
and ran my tongue over the head and shaft. His foreskin was pulled completely
back, and he tasted clean and sweet.

"Lie down," I growled as I released
him, and he moved obediently to the bed.

He lay face down, spreadeagled on
the bedspread and I knelt over him. I kissed my way from his shoulders
to his hips, enjoying his warmth and the unblemished smoothness of his
skin. He had that distinctive scent of English soap, a mix of lavender
and heather.

"Get up a second, lover," I whispered
in his ear, and when he rose, we stripped back the covers, him standing
on one side bed and I on the other. "Good, now on your back," I commanded
when we'd finished.

He looked at me questioningly, but
did as I asked. I stood at the side of the bed and slowly stripped as he
watched my every move, his eyes moving slowly over my body as more and
more of it came into view.

When I was naked I lay down by him,
took his hand and moved it to my cock.

He stroked it gently, obviously unsure
of himself. I lay back and let him explore, let him find his own way.

"You want it?" I eventually said
as his gentle hand moved over me.

"Yes," he whispered, taking his eyes
from my cock to look into my eyes with an expression of innocence and desire.

"How, Patrick? Tell me how."

"I want you in me," he whispered.
It was clearly difficult for him to say it, to put it into words.

"You want my cock in your ass," I
said, my voice low, trying to help.

"Yes."

"You want me to fuck you."

"Yes." His face blushed with embarrassment,
wanting it but too shy, too ashamed to put it into words.

"Lay back," I said and he immediately
complied.

I prepared him slowly, gently, spreading
lubricant over along his crack and then with one finger pressing into him.
He moaned and opened to me, letting my finger move further in.

"You feel quite clean," I reassured
him.

"I took care of it before I came
out," he whispered, blushing again at his admission. I wondered if he knew
'came out' had more than one meaning.

When I found his prostate he jumped.
I touched it again and he moaned. I charted his body so I'd know how to
please him most.

When I'd worked three fingers into
him I declared him ready and rolled a condom over my shaft.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Yes," he whispered in reply.

I knelt between his legs, lifting
them to my shoulders and then moving my sheathed cock to his pulsing hole.

His eyes opened wide, then wider,
as I slid slowly into him.

When my cock hit his prostate he
moaned. I pulled back and moved slowly in again.

"Oh, John!" he moaned.

I lowered myself to him, kissed his
soft, gaping lips as his legs locked around my hips and held us close.
My movements were limited to short, stabbing thrusts, but even at that
it didn't take long. He came hard, clenching my cock with his tight ass
muscles and driving me over the edge. We moaned.

I stayed in him until my cock went
soft and the condom was in danger of coming off. Only then, gripping the
latex sheath around my shaft, I pulled slowly out with an audible slurp
and the sudden, cloying odor of fucked ass.

Patrick looked embarrassed and blushed
again.

"It's all part of the package, lover,"
I whispered, "part of the human condition."

"I know."

He knew, but it was clear that he
was still embarrassed by the sights and sounds, the smells and words of
sex. I wondered just how innocent he was, now inexperienced. Or perhaps
he was just a prude.

I stretched out beside him and we
dozed.

An hour or so later I woke to the
touch of his hand. He stroked my chest and when I opened my eyes he smiled
at me.

Misunderstanding his intent, I said,
"are you leaving? Do you need to go?"

"Oh no," he whispered. "I was rather
hoping you'd be willing to do it again."

"Fuck you again?"

"Yes."

"My cock is certainly ready, Patrick,
but what about your ass?"

"It can take it," he grinned. "I
want it all, John. I don't know when, if ever, I'll be able to do this
again."

"With me? Not likely, on Friday I
fly back to the States."

"With any man."

"I'd say all you have to do is walk
into that pub on any busy night and smile."

He laughed, a genuine, happy laugh.

"There is a part of this you don't
understand."

"You are married, aren't you, despite
denying it before."

"Well, yes, but not in the sense
you mean."

"What other sense is there?"

He looked away, uncertain how much
he wanted to say, then turned back to me and told me all of if.

"I'm a priest, John, a Roman Catholic
priest."

"Oh, lord!"

"You're not Catholic, I hope."

"No, Episcopalian, Anglican, I guess
you'd say."

"Thank God."

I fucked him a total of three times,
the last, just before we left my room late morning the following day. We
found a pub and I treated us to Shepherd's Pie and beer. We both ate like
starving beasts. Perhaps we were.